Huntress Rising
by Bishou no Marina
Summary: The demon hunter Iona seeks out the Fallen Star, unaware of the pivotal role she will play in the salvation of humankind and the High Heavens. Torn between hatred and discipline, rage and serenity, and instinct and intellect, she battles a private war at all times, something that perhaps only a Scoundrel born into a life of abject poverty and dire hardship can truly understand.
1. Chapter 1: Search and Destroy

**1**

**Search and Destroy**

"_Rage. Hate. Fear. They all feed upon one another. A demon hunter learns how to direct hate. But such a balance is precarious. And when that balance is lost, the cycle begins: Hate begets Destruction. Destruction begets Terror as Terror begets Hate."_

_Josen, veteran demon hunter_

There is no smell in all the world so immediately recognizable as the stench of death. Something in the mortal mind snaps suddenly awake when decay is near, sensing its own inevitable demise, reminded of its own fragile existence inside the crude matter of its fleshy shell. Flesh was made to rot. Man was made to die. This single immutable truth of life, a truth men fight tooth and nail to deny, is encompassed in that simple, entirely unique smell.

Iona knew it well. Her vocation demanded it. She felt the ghosts of revulsion trying to rise within her as she surveyed the carnage before her, but she quelled the feeling easily. She was no stranger to death. It was her constant companion, and she fed it frequently on demon blood, delivered by the arrow, the bolt, and sometimes, her bare hands. Consequently, she did not fear it as she once had, as a child of ten who had watched in horror and agonized helplessness as her parents were torn apart by hellspawn. Nor did she long for its numbing embrace, as she had when her sister, Isla, took her own life, her mind shattered by what she had seen. Ten years ago, Iona had been one of the hunted, easy prey for the legions of the Burning Hells. Now she was the huntress…and she would send as many demons to death's ever-open arms as she could.

"Temper your hatred with discipline," Iona's mentor, Li Xia, had often told her after the nameless group of demon hunters—all survivors like herself—welcomed her into their fold. "Properly balanced, our anger is our greatest ally. Its fire keeps us pure, safe from the corrupting influences of the demons who so easily enslave others. The ferocity of our hatred makes it impossible for them to possess us. Our thirst for vengeance gives us the strength to face terrors beyond human comprehension. But beware: your anger must be cold, so that you can use it. Anger which is hot uses _you_. Therefore, we must hold fast to discipline at all times, to keep our hatred cold, so that it does not devour us. Hot anger brings us ever closer to the domain of Mephisto, the demonic Lord of Hatred. Every demon hunter who has ever been exiled was twisted by his own lack of discipline. Not by demons. Remember this."

Iona came back to herself, lowering her hood. Beside her, a man stood panting, his hands on his knees for support. Sweat dripped from his hair and face, and he wiped is brow with the sleeve of his tunic before straightening once more. His eyes were bloodshot and glistening, half-lidded against the smoke. Dozens of cadavers burned in a mass funeral pyre nearby…but these people had received their final rites before, when they were first put in the ground. Now, in the shadows over New Tristram, the dead were rising.

And they were hungry.

"Thank Akarat you arrived when you did, milady. I've never seen anyone fight like that, before," the man said, once he'd caught his breath. "What brought you here? I didn't think word of our…problem…had spread, yet."

"I was told that a star fell from the sky and landed in Tristram," Iona replied, pulling a crossbow bolt from one of the risen dead and whipping the blood from its shaft with a jerk of her arm before placing it in one of the two quivers at her hips, where her enchanted hand crossbows hung by their stirrups within easy reach. "I have come here to find it."

"Well, you're welcome to it," he said wearily, eyeing the shimmering crossbows with an expression of mingled awe and nervousness. "It's caused us nothing but trouble since it fell. The moment it hit the ground, the dead began to rise, and they haven't stopped since. I was…I was the only survivor when Captain Daltyn went out to fight them off. Now I'm supposed to lead the rest of the men, but I'm no soldier." He shook his head miserably. "I am—I was a farmer. The Captain and his contingent protected me, and they died for it. Now the rest are looking to me to lead them, calling me _Captain_ Rumford. You've seen what we're up against. I…I never wanted this responsibility."

"Few men do. But the others are looking to you for strength. You are all they have, Captain. You must lead them. It is your lot, now. What you want is irrelevant."

Iona stepped toward him and tightened the strap of his left pauldron. She was a beautiful woman, small and slender with silky hair as black as coal, but Rumford shied away from her touch. There was something terrifying behind the perfect symmetry of her sharp features and the methodical fluidity with which she moved. Seeming to sense his discomfort, she stepped back, pulling the hood of her dark cloak over her head once more. The fiery brightness of her eyes, shining out from beneath the cowl, confirmed his suspicions about her true nature.

"You're a demon hunter," he whispered, his voice tinged with the smallest note of hope.

Before Iona could answer, a tearing sound alerted them to movement among the corpses that awaited the fire. A human torso clawed at the earth, separating its upper half from the rest of its body. With a look of mild disgust—and perhaps a touch of pity—Iona stepped on its neck and crushed its skull with the butt of one of her crossbows. It did not move again. "Where will I find the fallen star?" she asked soberly.

Rumford gestured to the open gates and the small town beyond them. "It blasted a crater in the middle of the old cathedral. There was only one survivor, as far as we know. Leah. She and her uncle have been here for about a year, now, studying the old tomes inside the cathedral. No idea what they were looking for, and frankly, I don't want to know, but they were in there when the star hit us. You can find her at the Slaughtered Calf Inn. Pretty girl, about your age, I'd say, give or take a couple of years. She's one of the only ones who haven't taken ill from the bites of these infernal creatures. Mind their teeth if you come across them again, milady. I don't think the sick ones are going to make it through the night. We've had to lock most of them in a cellar in case they rise again when they die, like these ones."

"Thank you, Captain Rumford. After I've spoken with Leah, I will avenge your fallen comrades and send these unholy creatures back to their graves. You have my word."

Rumford watched the dark huntress as she strode past him into the cursed town. Her cloak whipped smartly in the wind, briefly revealing an arsenal of weapons secured neatly in holsters strapped to the light, flexible armor that covered her slender body. He was again struck by how very small she was. Then he remembered the ruthless way she had slaughtered the risen dead, firing magical bolts from each of her two crossbows simultaneously and flinging a storm of bright blades from a hidden place beneath her cloak. She never missed a mark. He only had to look down at the broken bodies of the dead to know that size was not everything.


	2. Chapter 2: For the Fallen

**2**

**For the Fallen**

"_It's not so bad, being poor. Rich people are always worrying about this or that. I think we're the lucky ones, Isla. If you don't own anything, you can't lose anything, can you?"_

_- Iona, a candle-maker's daughter_

The town proper of New Tristram was smaller than Iona had expected. The area had once been the seat of power for King Leoric, the ruler of Khanduras, and the site of the old Horadric monastery—the very cathedral that had been crushed by the Fallen Star.

Iona, like most demon hunters, did not believe in coincidences.

Old Tristram was an unrecognizable ruin. New Tristram was just a motley collection of merchants and tradesmen, a handful of farmers, and the odd adventurer or two who plundered the cathedral for treasure while the scholars plundered it for knowledge and prestige. Iona's childhood home had not been far from here. The town of Dunvale, or what was left of it, lay beyond the aptly named Fields of Misery. After Leoric's final death, hordes of demons had been scattered to the four winds by the King's eldest son, Aidan. Ten years later, they had found their way back. They ransacked Dunvale, along with all the other villages not under the protective mantle of Westmarch. Now there was only New Tristram and its hidden riches to carry on the memory of the glory of Khanduras. Iona had no love for her native country, but she felt a strange tugging at her spirit, nonetheless. It was as though the damp earth beneath her feet was welcoming her home, tasting the ashes of the Dreadlands on her boots with disapproval while long blades of grass brushed fussily at the ragged edge of her cloak.

Grunting, a guard heaved another corpse into the growing bonfire as she passed. A shower of sparks flew up from the burning branches as the body landed in the fire, a momentary blast of heat found its way under her hood, and then the cooler air of the night was back, caressing her cheek. _I should have burned Isla_, she thought. _I may have to, if this spreads. _

Li Xia's voice was in her mind at once, searching for weakness. _Could you? If you saw your sister rise from her grave, could you put a bolt through her head and give her to the fire? _

There was no hesitation. _Yes_, Iona thought firmly. _I would purchase her peace with every weapon I own, if that was what it took._

A heavily-muscled man stood dejectedly by the corner of an inn. His hands were blackened and calloused, and there was a dark blood blister beneath one of his thumbnails. _Probably from a bad hammer strike. But he's no carpenter. A smith, then_, she thought. He had the look of a man who had decided to work and work until his body simply gave out and died. Only a special kind of grief could drive someone to that.

"Blacksmith," she said gently. "You look weary."

"It's my wife," he replied in a low voice thick with sorrow. His eyes were hollow and beseeching. "She's very ill."

"Then she will need you to be strong for her." Iona's tone was soothing, and the smith nodded silently.

"You there!" a shaky voice called out. "Excuse me, but I—I need help!"

Iona turned and followed the sound to its owner with her eyes. A short, fat, bald man in an extravagantly embroidered outfit stood beside an over-laden cart with a broken wheel. She gave the blacksmith's shoulder a soft squeeze and approached the caller.

"Yes, you!" he cried excitedly. "I need your help. I'm trying to leave this horrible place, but my cart broke, and now it's blocking the way to the road."

A woman threw down a basket of blankets and balled her hands into fists. In the flickering of the firelight, Iona saw clean tear-tracks on her dirty face. "Don't you _dare_ help our mayor move his wagon! My brother _died_ fighting those things while this bloated coward ran away and hid!"

"Is this true?" Iona asked him.

He blotted his ruddy face with a handkerchief, then stuffed it back into his pocket, trembling. "I tried to tell them all, there's no point in staying here! Those things are still out there, and they're going to take the town sooner or later! I may be the mayor, but I'm not a fool. I'm getting out of here! We're all going to die if we stay!"

"If you've lost all hope," Iona said coldly, turning away, "then you're already dead."

The mayor reddened even more and mopped his face again, sniffling. Iona bent and retrieved the basket of blankets, handing it back to the woman who had dropped it. "Your brother's death will not be in vain. Are these for the sick ones in the cellar?"

"Yes, milady."

"You are very strong to nurse them so selflessly even in grief. Your brother would be proud. What was his name?"

Someone else answered. A soldier, bandaged heavily from his chest to his pelvis, leaned on his lance like an old man with a walking stick. "_Marko_," he groaned through his teeth, shaking and sweating. "It was Marko…I promised I'd protect him, and now he's _dead_. I'm s-so sorry, Tansy."

"Back to bed, my love," Tansy scolded, putting the basket back on the ground and lifting his arm over her shoulder, supporting his weight as well as she could. "I've got more than enough to worry about without trying to keep my fool husband from sneaking back out into the fighting. We've held for days, and I imagine we'll keep holding. You've gone and done your part. Now the others will just have to do without you." She kissed him and smoothed his hair away from his pale face. "Because_ I _can't," she whispered.

_I cannot let this town fall_, Iona thought, gazing down at the blankets. Each one represented a life. A suffering human being. She felt a shifting sensation in her heart. Securing New Tristram from the threat of the risen dead took priority in her mission, now. The Fallen Star would have to wait. Li Xia had taught her that demons could take as many forms as there were stars in the sky. A good hunter could detect their touch, and Iona felt the greasy heaviness of old malice in the air like a foul wind rising from the crypts. The suffering of these people at the hands of their buried loved ones would be a particularly delicious spectacle for the denizens of the Burning Hells, even if no demons were directly involved.

The Slaughtered Calf Inn was packed with the wounded, who lay on pallets on the floor. _The cellar must be full, _Iona thought with some trepidation. These people bore the bites of creatures with flat teeth. The dead had gotten to them. The ones in the cellar were the first, then, the sickest. These could not be far behind, for they were certainly not long for this world. The smell of sickness was cloying. Iona saw eerily green tinges in gray skin, hollow cheeks, and distended bellies. A fly landed on the emaciated face of an elderly man, and he lifted his hand a few inches before it fell back onto the pallet, too weak to brush the insect away. Iona knelt beside him and, viper-like, snatched the fly from his cheek, catching its wings between her fingers. She crushed the struggling thing beneath her boot heel. A tear made its way from the corner of the man's eye, and she smiled reassuringly, sweeping it away with her gloved thumb before she stood.

"People say demon hunters have hearts as hard as stone," someone said quietly. "I've never believed it. You don't become a demon hunter unless you know what it's like to love someone with all your heart, do you?"

Iona glanced behind her at a girl only a little younger than she, with short brown hair and somber hazel eyes filled with a spark of cleverness that belied her age. A curiously shaped amulet—a Horadric symbol, if Iona was not mistaken—lay against her skin, near her heart, suspended from a thin chain. Something about her _tugged_ at Iona, at something deep and dormant within her, a sense she did not know how to use. She frowned, brushing the feeling away. She could examine it later. She lowered her hood.

"You must be Leah. Captain Rumford said that you were in the cathedral when the star fell."

"Yes. My uncle, Deckard Cain, was there, too, and we got separated. Then the dead started to rise. I came back here to rally the militia, but th—"

"Get back!" Iona said sharply. Her crossbows were in her hands in an instant, pointed at the sick, who were writhing and groaning, working themselves into a frenzy as they died. They all began to get to their feet, dripping with sweat and other bodily fluids, eyes devoid of life. As one, they turned and shambled toward her, arms reaching, fingers grasping, teeth gnashing. The old man she had soothed tripped and fell, but pulled himself steadily along with the others, salivating as his nails scraped the floorboards. Iona's thumb was still damp with his tears.

"May darkness grant you peace," Iona whispered. Her eyes burned. She squeezed the modified triggers of her handbows, putting a bolt through his eye and the throat of a dead man behind him. Soon, all of the victims lay still, each with a single bolt planted in their flesh. Iona holstered her crossbows and let out a long breath. This had been like shooting fish in a barrel. The real battle would not be so easy.

"This is _killing_ business," the barkeep joked nervously as he levered himself up behind the counter. Iona spared him a disapproving glance, then looked away, shaking her head. Everyone had his own way of dealing with death, after all. If everyone chose _her_ way, the world would be a joyless place.

_The fletchers would be as rich as kings, though_, she thought, suppressing a pained smile. It was the sort of thing she might have said to her sister, to make her laugh. Isla had always been so serious, always lost in thought, pondering philosophy—as much philosophy as a poor candle-maker's daughter could get her hands on, anyway. Now that she was gone, it seemed she had left all of her seriousness with Iona for safekeeping.

"The Fallen Star caused this?" she asked carefully, gesturing to the corpses.

Leah nodded. "I think so. We've been here for more than a year. This place was just a boring little town until the star hit the cathedral. I think Uncle Deckard knew something like this would happen. If you find him, he can tell you more. He's alive down there. I just know it. I can _feel_ it."

"I believe you can," Iona said softly.

Leah slung a shortbow over one shoulder and strapped a quiver of arrows to her hip. As she moved, a charm braided into her hair caught the light and glinted. Iona watched her silently. As children, she and Isla had worn such things, weaving them into each other's hair for good luck. She hoped that Leah's charm had granted her enough luck to keep Cain alive during the collapse of the cathedral. The rest was in their hands. "The guards locked the doors to the cathedral behind them when they retreated, but the Captain told me they left the keys in Adria's hut. I can take you there."

Rumford was frantic when they reached the gates. His pauldron had come loose again, and he did not even seem to notice when Iona tightened it for him this time. "You can't mean to go out there! The dead are about to come through the barricade!"

Iona held Leah's gaze firmly. "Can you kill?" she asked tersely.

"Yes," the girl replied with a brave sort of pain in her eyes. "It's…not my first time."

"Nor mine." Iona softened her tone and faced the barrier. "We'll be all right. Let's put them back to rest, now."


	3. Chapter 3: Talismans

**3**

**Talismans**

"_Of course we will take her in. Are you children or are you men? Leave your superstition where it belongs: in the dust beneath your feet. A solitary twin is still the bearer of a whole soul unique unto itself, even when its counterpart dies. Give her to me, if you are afraid. Perhaps this is the lot I have drawn. Yes…perhaps the very last one. But mark me, and mark me well, young hunters._

"_Though it falls to me to teach this girl-child, we have all taken on a heavy debt, whether you wish to believe the truth or close your eyes to it. Isla Chandler's suicide was our salvation, and humanity will never, ever be able to repay her._

"_Remember her."_

_- Li Xia of Xiansai, the eldest living demon hunter_

Two women—one marching with a charm jingling in her hair, the other little more than a quiet shadow in the underbrush—made their way along the hidden path the pounding boots of the survivors of the cathedral massacre had made as they fled. The path of their hasty retreat was the straightest line to the heart of the disaster, and Leah and Iona shared an unspoken agreement that no time must be wasted. Every second that passed shortened Deckard Cain's lifespan, if indeed he still lived. In addition, Rumford—now looking more and more like a man who had jumped over his own grave without falling in and still could not believe it—informed them shakily that if they could slay the Wretched Mothers, monstrosities whose bile stirred the dead from their slumber, Tristram might be able to rest easily for a while. The relentless fury of the undead would stop.

The girl, Leah, had held firm when the dead broke through the carts, doors, boards, and sharpened stakes of the barricade, handling her shortbow with the confidence of a lifetime of training and an intimate knowledge of both the weapon's capabilities and her own. Or so Iona had thought, at the time. Something nagged at her now, as they jogged through the brush. There had been another kind of confidence radiating from Leah as she had loosed her arrows, the muscles of her smooth forearms tensing and releasing like the measured breathing of some strange creature lurking just beneath her skin. The girl was special. Somehow, she was special, as Iona, herself, was special.

"We're not so different, you know," the girl murmured, as though reading her thoughts. Iona kept her face carefully blank as Leah turned to look at her. "I have great power within me, too. Like you. But…not _just_ like you. I can't control mine. It just sort of…_explodes_. But it's only happened a few times, and only when I was in grave danger."

"That sounds…disturbing," Iona replied carefully. "Leah, what do you know of your family? Your parents, your…siblings?"

"I don't have any siblings," Leah answered. "My mother was Adria, the owner of the hut we're making for. But she died when I was very young. No one lives there, now."

"And your father?"

Her face flushed with pride, which Iona could detect even in the sparse patches of moonlight. "I'm told he was a great warrior. He died fighting for Old Tristram, almost twenty years ago. Just before I was born. Sometimes I wonder if he knew about me. If he knew he was going to have a daughter."

"What do you think?"

"That he did. I think that he did, and that he sent my mother away to go live in Caldeum where we'd be safe. When she died, Uncle Deckard took me in, and we've been traveling the world ever since, chasing after moldering prophecies and folklore." A profound weariness touched her voice, teetering on the edge of bitterness but not quite daring to take that step. "He's obsessed with the 'End Times.' It's all just stories, but I think he really believes the world is about to end. Now. It's like he took us to Tristram just to wait for it."

"I have a mentor, as you do," Iona said quietly, pulling a branch out of Leah's way and guiding the girl around a hole that seemed to be begging spitefully for an ankle to break. "Her name is Li Xia—what her family name is, I do not know. We keep them to ourselves, for the most part. Like talismans. Do you understand?"

"I'm not sure," Leah admitted.

"If we are the only ones to remember the name our fathers gave us, and their fathers before them, if _we_ are the _only ones_ to remember those faces and names, then our resolve to live grows that much stronger, because we know that if we die, they all die with us, Leah. No one lives on to carry their torch forward. That burden is ours. And sometimes, a burden can be a blessing. A way of keeping yourself alive, and fighting, because no one else will pick up your burden for you. Li Xia told me that I should seek out the Fallen Star, because its arrival would herald a great doom, a doom that I must face, myself. It was, she said, the lot I had drawn. We do not have the luxury of choosing these lots—we can only choose what we do with them. So have faith in your uncle, Leah. He is not the only one who sees the Star as a portent. And his faith in you must be great, for him to involve you so heavily in his life's work."

Leah fixed her solemn eyes on Iona's, chewing pensively at the corner of her lip as she fingered the amulet that lay against her chest, over her heart. "Li Xia's faith in you is great, too, isn't it?" she said at last.

"It is." There was neither pride nor embarrassment in her voice. It was a simple fact, acknowledged.

Leah smiled. "I think you have another talisman. The names of your friends. They don't die with you, though. They live on. So you should talk about them, you know? Talk about them, and make _more_ friends, wherever you go." She sighed. "One day, when all of this is over, I'm going to open an inn. Everyone needs a waystation. A safe place to sleep, away from the road."

"That sounds like the perfect place for an ambush," Iona remarked. "I would sleep in a field."

"No one's getting ambushed in _my_ inn," Leah said stoutly, and again Iona felt the odd tugging sensation, recognizing it more as a sort of _flexing_, as of great power. She felt it touch her for the briefest instant, and her eyes flashed with hellfire, as they did when she fought. She found that she was very, very afraid, now. The air was icy in her throat. Her mouth went dry, and she stopped walking. Her forefingers twitched as they moved to the weapons at her sides.

Then it was over. The fire went out of her eyes, the oppressive feeling of awful dread just a half-imagined memory, now. But Iona was no fool, and neither had her teacher been a fool. She would not forget this feeling. She would not ignore it. All she could do was file it away in a corner of her mind, for now, and keep a wary eye on the girl.

_I can't control mine, _Leah had said.

_I. can't._

Those were the words that mattered. Iona resolved to find out just how Deckard Cain's niece had come by such power, and who, if anyone, had suffered for it. Another thought, still more ominous, clouded her mind as she caught up to the girl. Perhaps…just perhaps…someone else _could_ control it. What a horror that might make of this poor, sweet girl, if true.

If true.

"There it is!" Leah cried softly. "Adria's hut. The keys should be in here, somewhere."

The little ramshackle building appeared long-vacant. Leah reached out to push the door open, then jumped as it fell off its hinges with a rusty squeal and a wet, muffled groan. It was rotten. Iona put her hand on Leah's shoulder to steady her, but the girl was already stepping carefully over the wreckage of the door, pointing to a dark corner.

"There's a hidden passage, here, down under the floor," she whispered excitedly. "Come on!"

Leah opened the door and vanished into the depths beneath the hut. Iona paused, her nostrils flared with the stench of death again. Intuition—or perhaps only anxiety—prodded her to gaze out the hut's solitary window at the fields beyond. The Cathedral was near. And that meant its great cemetery was, as well.

She knelt, pulling a handful of caltrops from a pouch at her belt. She set the cruel traps carefully below the window, then, as an afterthought, along the entire wall. "Basement" and "trap" were almost synonymous in her personal lexicon. If anything tried to get through while they were down there, she would hear them. …She hoped. Always, it came down to hope. Action would follow, regardless, but it was better to have hope, to grease the axles.

Iona slid down into the hole, into blackness.

Her foot struck a shallow board, then another. There was a ladder here, completely intact. As she made her descent, she felt the glow of a torch somewhere behind her. Glancing down, she gauged the distance and jumped the rest of the way to the ground, landing almost noiselessly on the packed dirt. Leah watched her, holding the torch aloft, her face grave.

"Your mother had her secrets," Iona murmured, brushing the dirt from her hands. All along the walls were jars and vials of powders, barrels of things which might at one point have been alive, and dusty books dog-eared with use. Iona's eyes widened. At the center of the room, a cauldron sat in the fire from which Leah must have lit her torch.

Someone was _here_.

"People always said she was a witch," Leah mused, examining the books. "I never would have believed it, but this…this is incredible. Uncle Deckard would be wild to get his hands on some of these tomes."

Iona took her by the elbow and drew her, none too gently, back to the ladder. "And the fire? Who lit that, Leah?"

Leah swallowed hard, suddenly looking very frightened. "I...I don't know. I'll just get the key—"

"_Stay. Here_."

Leah nodded, slipping the torch into an iron loop on the wall. The charm in her hair bobbed crazily in the firelight as she trembled, and Iona sighed.

"_Please_," she forced herself to add. "I need you to guard the exit. Can you do that, Leah?"

"Right," Leah said bravely. "Okay."

"Thank you." Iona tried a smile. "I'm not accustomed to the luxury of backup."

"And I'm used to having to drag Uncle Deckard away from a library of old scrolls to keep us from getting killed by mobs of angry skeletons," Leah replied, returning the smile, but sadly. "It must feel that way to you, huh?"

"Not entirely, Leah," Iona murmured, scanning the room. "In fact, you remind me of…someone. Someone very special to me. So please, try to stay safe, and remember that we have your uncle to think of, in addition to ourselves."

"Yeah, we do….We—"

She stopped breathing.

Iona was already moving.

In the shadow beyond the firelight, several figures had begun to rise from the ground, and as they had, the death-smell had intensified. Iona somersaulted, landing on the lip of the cauldron, avoiding the steam as she pinwheeled once for balance. A braid of rope hung from the support beams above her, and she leaped for it, kicking out with all her might as she did. The massive cauldron crashed onto its side, scalding the dead creatures as they rose.

"Captain Daltyn!" Leah shouted breathlessly, as one of the dead men shrieked and struggled with its heavy, soaking, steaming clothing.

Carrots, potatoes, and two skinned rabbits—ingredients for a stew the infected men had doubtless hoped to eat before death took them in this dark, hidden space—grew faintly fragrant as the boiling water washed over them, but it was not an appetizing smell. Cooked manflesh was stronger in the air, now. Leah looked up at the beams with wide, pained eyes and saw the demon hunter fitting something to one of her crossbows. Her eyes weren't dark anymore. They were glowing like the fire in the middle of the room. The first time she had seen it, she had thought it _was_ the fire, just a reflection. But it wasn't. Those hellish eyes locked with hers for an instant, and Leah backed quickly to her post at the base of the ladder.

Iona wound a special bola into its matching groove in her handbow, her eyes locked on the figures below. "You were right not to return to town when you knew you were infected. I will avenge you, Captain, and your brave men," she whispered, pulling the trigger. "Now, sleep."

The cord whipped around all of the struggling, growling creatures as they slipped and slid in the boiling soup. Then, half a heartbeat later, it exploded.

Leah cried out as the blow rocked the foundations of the hut, holding her hand over her eyes against the shower of dust falling from the shelves. She coughed, spitting dirt from her mouth, and blinked, peeking around the corner at the main room.

The cauldron was gone. The dead men were gone. Only the demon hunter remained, perched on a beam with a closed look on her beautiful face. But to the left…there was a desk, and on it… Leah got to her feet and almost fell again as she reached it, running her fingers over a leather-bound book with a shivery sort of hunger.

_Overkill_, Iona thought bitterly to herself. _You wanted to be absolutely sure, because you were afraid. You were afraid for Leah because she reminds you, oh yes, she reminds you so, so, SO much of HER, and now the dead will surely be coming for you, now. Stealth is lost. Surprise is lost. All because of your weakness. Go and meet them, now. Go and meet them before they find this girl._

She dropped lightly to the ground, away from the mess she had made.

"I found the Cathedral key," Leah said shakily, holding it up. Her face was pale and streaked with dust, but her eyes were bright. "I also found my mother's journal. What I've read of it is disturbing. But I think it holds some clues about all of this."

Iona took the key stiffly. "Go back to town. Learn what you can. I will rescue your uncle."

Leah nodded and smiled. "Thank you."

Her smile, it seemed, was a perfect ghost of Isla's. And that made it a ghost of Iona's, as well. _Has Leah ever noticed_, Iona wondered as her hands closed over the ladder's bottom rung, _that she and I have the same smile?_

Li Xia's voice answered. _Perhaps she would, if you smiled more_.

"I will," she whispered to herself, climbing upward, toward the moon. "I will smile quite a bit tonight. But only my enemies will see it."


	4. Chapter 4: The Dark

**4**

**The Dark**

"_In an isolated environment, entropy can only increase. Human souls were meant to mingle. But as hunters, we are alone in nearly every sense of the word. 'So are the hermits and the holy men,' some may argue. 'Why worry?' Because hermits and holy men do not hunt and kill demons. Be ever-mindful of discipline, especially in the midst of hatred. We must hold on to the idea of humanity most carefully when we fight. Hold on tightly. And pray that we will come out of the dark, again."_

_- Li Xia_

_Click._

_Click._

_Clickclick._

_Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick clickclick._

The traps Iona had set inside Adria's hut sprang urgently to life just before the wall came down under the weight of the surging dead. She pulled Leah out of the way and hurled her bodily back toward the path to town, whipping out a large knife and flipping it into the greedy mouth of a bloated corpse before it could grab her. The creature stumbled and fell, the blade protruding from the back of its neck.

"Now," she said, feeling a burning in her eyes that had nothing to do with the dust from the collapse of the hut, "_now_. Call for your _Wretched Mothers_. I would very much like to meet them."

Wrenching the knife from the jaws of the corpse, Iona spun and used the momentum to rip another one open from groin to jaw. Entrails hit the ground wetly and without ceremony, entangling the feet of the shambling creatures on either side of it. The knife was moving again, slitting throats so deeply that dead heads rocked back far enough for their weight to tear the remainder of the skin and sinew apart. The heads dropped to the ground, and the bodies followed.

_Is Leah gone yet, has she started running—_

Darkness.

Quiet, now. A sense of calm, as hatred took hold of her. Leah disappeared from Iona's mind, replaced by the HUNT and the KILL, and all the bloody things in between, all the wrongs, all the years and people lost to her because of the things that lurked in dark places. That was all right. Iona lurked there, too, now. Iona _liked_ dark places. It was better than being alone. Hunting and killing was better than being alone. Being with your enemies was better than being alone.

"CALL FOR YOUR MOTHERS!" she shrieked, barely hearing herself over the pounding in her ears. The pounding of her heart. The pounding of blood.

She danced into the mob, feeling the shadowy tendrils of the special powers inside her, the ones even Li Xia did not have, awaken and stretch. She vaulted through them, leaving a trail of flame in her wake. The corpses screamed as they caught fire, blundering into each other and spreading the damage among themselves. Iona liked that. She liked it very much. But it wasn't enough.

Capering like an acrobat, she shot a shadowy chain from one of her crossbows while releasing an explosive bola from another. Those entangled in the enchanted chain burned in the fire, unable to free themselves as it spread across the grass. The ones who caught the bola became red mist. Iona disappeared in a whirl of shadow and reappeared behind a massive, hulking grotesque. The obscene smell coming off of him did not distract her. She tossed caltrops at his feet and danced away, waiting for him to give chase. When he tried, the caltrops opened with a clicking sound and pierced his feet, leaving him to bellow out his last wheezes while she filled him with bolts. His body trembled, then exploded violently, releasing a swarm of wriggling eels that made for her with astonishing speed, their blind heads lifted in anticipation as they scented the air for her taste.

But the demon hunter had already lain down a spike trap, and she dispatched them with relish as they writhed, impaled on it.

A retching sound caught her attention just then, and she spun herself into shadow again, swirling toward that sound. It was a feminine form, gaunt, rotting, thoroughly dead, with long, matted hair, but the creature's eyes were alive with deadly malice. This, she knew at last, was what she had smelled when she had first arrived. The greasy smell of old malice. The smell of the Wretched Mothers.

Her window of clarity fogged again, and her heart leaped. This was THE TARGET. Iona's eyes were so fixed on the creature that she only dimly registered that there were two doubles behind her, forming a triangle. She smiled. _All_ of them. They were all there. She could take care of them all at once. Here. Now.

The Wretched Mothers clutched at their bellies with gnarled claws and vomited. Where the stuff hit the ground, more corpses formed, brought to life by the venomous bile of their mothers. Brought to life because of their malice—

_NO NO NO EXCUSES_ _THERE IS_ _NO 'BECAUSE'! KILL THEM! KILL THEM! KILL THEM! _

—it was the _injustice_—

_**KILL!**_

Iona killed.

She killed them all.

* * *

After a time, she came back to herself, nodding a little against a gravestone. She had walked so far to get to Tristram. So much ground covered, and no sleep allowed upon arrival. It was reckless. But it was also necessary. People had been dying.

"Not anymore," Iona muttered to herself, feeling tears on her face, as she always did after a trip into the Dark, into the depths of her hatred. It was a deep place, and her feet had never yet touched the bottom of it. It was hard to believe a person could carry so much hatred within them and not drown in it. But she managed.

"Isla." The word came out like an apology. _I pollute myself like this for you_.

But that was not entirely true. _I do it for myself, as well._ _I do it because I lived and you didn't, even though we were identical, Isla, IDENTICAL, and no one could tell us apart, not even our own parents!_

_Until we opened our mouths_, Isla's solemn voice seemed to retort softly. _Then, strangers could tell us apart._

"Uhhhhn." Iona rubbed savagely at her face, ridding herself of the tears. Cain. Deckard Cain. That was the priority. She had to save him. She had promised Isla.

She knocked her head against the gravestone in frustration. _Come out of it, Iona. You promised Leah. Isla is dead. She has been dead for years, and she is not coming back.  
_

Something about the Wretched Mothers had gotten to her. Badly. Iona had killed them very quickly. She had faced far more dangerous foes many times over. But something…there had been something radiating from their minds that had wrought _havoc_ with hers. Her eyes burned with hellfire because she had looked into the mind of a demon, and Seen. Now that she knew how, she could do it to any of them, if she dared. Part of her had done so with the Wretched Mothers as her hatred burned her discipline away. What had she seen?

Malice.

She began running to the Cathedral doors, her chest tight.

Not just malice. Malice was the aftereffect. It was injustice. Injustice.

The key Leah had given her was in the lock, and she spun it, hearing the tumblers like bells.

_Injustice._

She had felt sympathy for the injustice these dead matrons felt about their existence. Inner rage at the discovery of her traitorous heart had followed. Then, the slaughter, and the blackness, and the rebirth of her consciousness in a blur of tears, wanting Isla with all of her heart. Wanting to reach over and hold her twin sister's hand, and be complete.

Iona kicked the doors open, shooting the scattered dead without stopping to think about it. No more would rise. The militia only had mopping up to do, now. Once down, they would stay down. She leaned over the gaping hole in the floor, more of a crater, really, feeling the warmth of the blue light of the Star wash over her. Cleansing her.

She had not expected this. The feel of the Star's passage was not evil. It was pure and gentle, and when she looked into it with enough concentration, she felt a sense of _sacrifice_ so profound that it brought tears to her eyes again. She had to get to its source. And she had to get to Deckard Cain. The two were wrapped up together, that she knew in her heart, now, as well as her mind. Without one, the other could not be complete. Just as it was with the candle-maker's black-haired daughters.

"I'm coming," she whispered. Then she said it louder, calling down into the brightness.

"I'm coming! Cain! Hold on! I'm here!"

She leaped over the edge, into the light, her tears like raindrops as she fell with them.

And she smiled.


	5. Chapter 5: Forewarned

**5**

**Forewarned**

"_Isla was sleepwalking again, Iain. I found her in the garden, staring up at the sky. The poor thing was half-frozen by the time I got her inside, and white as a ghost. Her dear hands were like ice. I think she might have been standing there for hours. And when I got her back inside, I very nearly fell over Iona, because she was lying on the floor, burning up with another of her fevers and thrashing about. I couldn't rouse her. Only when Isla touched her did she quiet, and then of course they were both sound asleep just like that, curled up together on the floor. It's getting worse. It has to stop, Iain, I'm frightened. Even a locked door—a locked and BARRED door, Iain!—hasn't stopped Isla from going out of the house. It's as though she's walking through the walls... Iona is always ill for days after Isla goes out, and not at all herself, as you know. She's…somber. Like Isla. What could make a child so young _somber_? And do you know what I found under the bed? A whole nest of blankets. Our children are sleeping under their bed, not in it. _

"_I've made up my mind. I'm going to the greenwitch today, and I'm getting to the bottom of this. I know our other debts need paying, but by the High Heavens, Iain, I will put on a strumpet's gown and twirl on a diddler's _lap_ if it will get our daughters to someone who can understand them. Because we, my poor, sweet husband, cannot. This is beyond us." _

_- Neila, a candle-maker's wife_

Iona fell. As she rocketed downward through the crater, she caught handholds and footholds here and there to slow her progress, leaping from one craggy side to the other in a sort of zigzagging pattern, her cloak flapping behind her like a pair of great dark wings. At last, her feet hit solid ground. She looked around herself in wonder. The building far above her was only a mask. A façade. _This_ was the true Cathedral, the monastery of the Horadrim. She recognized the architecture from one of Isla's old books. It was here—when Iona was only a babe in swaddling clothes—that the crimson soulstone containing the essence of Diablo, Lord of Terror, had rested, its Horadric guardians lost to antiquity.

She traced the intricate etchings on the wall with a gloved finger for a moment, then let her hand fall away. The majestic place was merely a hollow shell; she could feel the presence of demonic energy all around her, like an oil slick on the surface of a cold, clear lake. However glorious it had once been, the cathedral was cursed, now.

Iona followed a trail of bodies down the corridor. _Militia men_, she noted, bending to examine one of them. _They're not infected...the risen dead were not responsible for this. _One man's head had been cloven in two. The huntress' eyes narrowed. There were orange flakes in a small cleft in the wall just above him. She rubbed some of it between her fingers and brought it to her nose. _Rust. Bad iron._ The soldiers had been attacked with edged weapons in varying states of decay…though it was clear enough that _something_ had taken several bites of them. No trace of blood ran out of the parts of the flesh that bore teeth marks. That was a comforting thought. At least they had been dead already when the eating had begun. Iona rose again and readied her crossbows, continuing silently down the great hall.

After a time, she came to an enormous room which must once have been very lavish, indeed. The blue light of the Star was here, as well, shining through a new hole in the floor. Its path was…strange. It was as though it had changed course multiple times while it fell. Iona gazed down into the bright crater, her heart pounding with anticipation. Her quarry was near. At long last, she would understand Li Xia's design for her. To find the Star was to find Truth. Li Xia had said it.

Another memory surged to the front of her mind as she looked into the blue maw.

_Isla_. She had always gazed so intently at the night sky whenever she walked in her sleep. Iona remembered lying with her sister in their little bed, curled together just as they had been in their mother's womb.

"_That Star," Isla murmured, absently braiding her black hair into Iona's. "He's putting himself back together in Pandi-moan-ee-um. Sometimes I even see him falling down here...he will, you know, when we're grown-ups. I feel him a little. Do you?"_

_Iona did not. She was trembling, her face pale and drawn. "Isla, I had bad dreams again. Can we put our blankets and everything under the bed and sleep there from now on? I'm so scared…"_

"_Yes," Isla agreed, squeezing her twin sister's hands. The braid they shared loosened slightly, but did not unravel. "We shouldn't sleep in plain sight. Not anymore."_

"_What about Mum and Dad?"_

"_They would never do anything like that," Isla said miserably. "They don't believe us. And…and M-mum is _afraid_ of me."_

"_But they'll die!" Iona cried in a shrill whisper, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I dreamed about it! The monsters will see them! They'll eat them!"_

"_Yes, they will."_

They had.

One night, as Iona and Isla lay huddled together beneath their bed in a tangle of blankets and coltish limbs, demons had poured into the little cottage. Iona could still remember the screams of her parents, prolonged and anguished. It hadn't been enough simply to kill them. The demons had wanted them to _suffer_. She and Isla had held each other so tightly that they could barely breathe, their faces pressed into each other's shoulders to keep silent.

Iona shook her head, banishing the memory, shoving it back down into the black vault that held every poisonous thing she had ever carried in her mind. One day, she knew, it would burst and infect the rest of her. One day, she would follow Isla into madness and death.

But not today.

As she tore herself away from the light of the Star, she heard footsteps echoing off stone. She dropped swiftly and silently into a crouch within a small alcove, weapons readied, muscles taut, anticipating the kill.

"Back, foul minions!" a weak voice commanded, and an elderly man hobbled out of the gloom. But the floor was weak beneath his feet. The Star had destroyed the foundation there on its way down into the earth.

He noticed. "May this ledge hold…" he prayed, rushing across it as quickly as he could. The stones fell away as his feet left them, but he made it to Iona's side of the chamber. A dark presence filled the huntress' mind like a noxious gas, and her eyes snapped to the broken ledge. The skeleton of an impossibly large man hung in the air, its empty sockets fixed on the old man. An unholy aura drifted hazily around him. Iona felt her blood beginning to boil. _This_ kind of monster was more suited to her tastes than shambling corpses and eels. Here, at last, was real opponent.

"The power of the Star awakened me," it snarled. "Now _all_ will suffer, as_ I_ have suffered! Guards! Bring me his bones!"

The old man had to be Leah's uncle, Deckard Cain. Iona stepped out of the shadows just as a swarm of skeletal creatures surrounded him, rusty swords and axes raised. Their leader departed, infuriatingly out of reach now that the floor had collapsed between them. She cursed and dashed toward the fray. She would have to settle for weaker prey.

"Cain! I'm here to rescue you!" Iona shouted, sternly reminding herself of her purpose here and raising her weapons. She always rode the edge of the trigger whenever she fought with handbows, acutely aware of exactly how much pressure was necessary to fire off a shot and never sparing more than that. Now she set the bows for rapid fire. "Get down!"

Cain knelt at once with his skinny arms held protectively over his head. Iona's fingers twitched. A spray of bolts fizzed into the skeletons like a swarm of angry bees. Dry bones splintered and withered ligaments snapped. They collapsed in heaps, hissing furiously, and Iona darted forward and swept the old man into her arms.

"Come, we must go now," she said urgently, hauling him to his feet. "We've made a great deal of noise; you are not safe."

"Yes, of course," he wheezed, hobbling toward a rotting bookcase. He tugged at one of the swollen, molding books, and to Iona's astonishment, the bookcase slid to one side, and fresh air filled the room. Cain smiled at her. "I found this passage in a collection of old maps. Please, follow me. The Skeleton King cannot leave the catacombs. He will not chase us."

She climbed out after him and found herself in the cemetery again. _But I fell so far… _Her thoughts trailed off into nothingness as she gazed up the side of a cliff to her right. The cemetery was so large that it spanned multiple levels of land. The graves here at the base of the cliff were older; she could barely make out their inscriptions.

Cain wiped sweat from his brow and ran his fingers shakily through his disheveled white beard. "Thank you for rescuing me, young Miss. But I must ask…why did you risk yourself for me?"

"Your niece, Leah, was worried for your safety. We should leave quickly. The cemetery is no place for you, now. The dead have been rising since the Star fell on the Cathedral. I dispatched their mothers, but there may be more wandering around."

She eyed him dubiously as she spoke. He had turned his ankle when she commanded him to duck. It could take hours to reach Tristram, now, unless she carried him. Iona was very strong, but only for her size. _Like a willow wand_, her mother had once scolded. _You really must eat more, dear. _In addition, she still had not slept, and she had not eaten. She was not certain she could carry him all the way back without exhausting her strength completely. If they were attacked…

"Leah! Oh, it is so good to hear that she is well," Cain sighed, relieved. "I agree with you completely on the matter of leaving as quickly as we can. I can tell you more about this Star, if you wish. Come with me to Tristram."

He closed his eyes and waved his hand slowly in a sweeping motion over the ground. To Iona's astonishment, a bright circle of light appeared, encompassing a collection of strange runes. Cain opened his eyes and chuckled at her expression. "You have never seen a Waypoint, I see. They are quite useful, and they have saved my life more times than I would care to count. Would you like me to show you how to conjure them, yourself, young Miss?"

"My name is Iona. And I am afraid I have no talent for conjuring."

He peered at her for a long moment, humming tunelessly to himself under his breath. "You will, Iona—after a fashion. You have more talent than you know, child." He waved the Waypoint away. "Come, at least allow me this opportunity to repay you for saving a foolish old man's life. Mm?"

Despite her impatience, Iona could not help herself. Cain had a certain subtle charm, a way of smiling that completely disarmed her. She holstered her weapons and walked to his side.

"Very good," he murmured approvingly. "The most important virtue of any good student is the willingness to learn. Now, Iona, hold out your hand, palm-down, and think of New Tristram. Close your eyes, if that helps. You cannot create a Waypoint to a place you have never seen, of course, but I assume that if you met my niece, you have been to New Tristram. The sight alone is not enough, however. You must capture the essence of the place. Think of its sounds, its smells, its people, its history if you know it, and even the feel of the ground beneath your feet in the town square. Hold those things in your mind, and when you believe you have them, move your hand over the ground and your desire to travel there will create the Waypoint. Take your time."

Iona closed her eyes, remembering the stench of burning bodies, the lights in the windows of the inn, the barricade, Captain Rumford, the Mayor…and Leah. _I must complete my promise to Leah, _she thought with deep conviction._ I take Deckard Cain to New Tristram._

The Waypoint appeared, blazing in the grass at her feet, and she stepped back in shock. "How…?"

Cain smiled warmly, gazing up at her from beneath bushy eyebrows. "Don't you know? You are _special_, my child. In time, you will understand, and I will help you to the best of my abilities. Shall we go?"

Iona nodded. Together, they stepped into the circle, and vanished.


End file.
